


Love(craft) In Brooklyn

by bellefire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Laura, Angst-lite, Apartment AU, BFF Lydia, Getting Together, Grumpy Derek, Humor, M/M, Magical stiles, Mates, Miscommunication, Protective Derek, Scents, Witchcraft, butchering lovecraftian mythology, holiday fic, horror-lite, not beta’d, shhh its fine don’t worry about it, siblings Jackson and Malia, stiles might have a pet eldritch horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 03:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13068366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellefire/pseuds/bellefire
Summary: “Shouldn’t you be more concerned?  About the…Eldritch god in your salad bowl?"“Baby, Lydia, baby Eldritch god. Godling? But the important part! Didn’t you hear me?  Hot beardy werewolf in 42A took the elevator up with me! By Choice!  And you know he didn’t even threaten me once, progress!”“Oh,” Lydia watches the inky black mass in the bowl writhe and for a moment she thinks she sees an itty bitty circular mouth full of pointed teeth, “I heard you.”





	Love(craft) In Brooklyn

**Author's Note:**

> Some background info on this au: all the big BH events still happened minus the involvement of the Hales. Lydia and Stiles were raised into witchcraft.Scott still became the Alpha but Peter wasn't the one who bit him. Peter is also the father of Jackson and Malia because I always liked the Jackson was supposed to be Peter's kid theory. Mates are a known thing among all shifters.
> 
> Anyway enjoy my unbeta'd holiday garbage. I tried to not get too dark in places, still, it ain't that deep kids.

 

**Love(craft) in Brooklyn**

 

Old New York brick holds on to moisture like nobody’s business, the buildings are alive and thirsty. Thirsty for whatever their tenants deemed necessary to spill on them. When the tenant is a seventy year old great grandmother and a retired high priestess to a coven with a love for sequin blouses there’s a bit more variety in what gets spilled.

“Honestly, hon, I have no idea what happened. I was simply trying to clean out some of the older stocks of herbs in the basement you know? Before they turned to vinegar. I’m so sorry I had you call you again.” Mrs. Shipton says, as she offers Stiles a mug of flowery smelling tea the floorboards beneath their feet rumble, “Oh, dear.”

Mrs. Shipton says ‘again’ like it’s not the third time Stiles has made the journey from his apartment in Red Hook to the South Bronx in two weeks. Practicing magic in these old pre-war buildings is always bound to have an odd happening or six, that’s the nature of magic and the nature of earth-tethered spirits. Of course what’s down in the basement is no ghost.

An unfortunate shade of greenish brown is starting to seep through the boards. The liquid congeals into small bubbles that drift weightlessly upwards dragging stringy tails behind them similar enough to melted cheese to make Stiles, well, not hungry, but more aware he skipped breakfast for this. College has done weird things to his appetite.

Stiles wipes his hands on his old jeans and checks his messenger bag full tools of the trade before giving back the untouched tea, “Guess I’ll head on down. Down worry, Mrs. Shipton, I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you so much, hon, be careful now.” She adjusts her white perfectly pinned hair, for all appearances the old woman is at ease.

Stiles winks at her, internally he braces himself because while this may be his third time dealing with this shit he isn’t immune to the sheer amount of creep factor gateways inherently have. The sense of wrongness they bring into an area lingers.

The second he opens the door to the basement and steps through the temperature drops to freezing. His hand instinctively reaches out to the old railing on the stairs, he chokes on a yelp when he finds that the same viscous fluid seeping up through the floor boards is covering the railing and some parts of the wall that he can see. Stiles turns on the flashlight he brought with him, he’d learned his lesson trying to use his phone screen as a light source the last time.

Somewhere floating in the abyss is Stiles Stilinski’s phone and his lovingly illegally downloaded 2,000 songs. His storage on that thing was out of this world and just generally more awesome than the replacement he’s toting around now, custom a la Lydia Martin who is the best techno witch he’s ever seen. However when it came to the dark corners and unidentifiable fluids, Stiles Stilinski is your man…probably not the best thing to put on his future business cards. Together they run a side hustle as sort of supernatural fixers, witches for hire while they attended Columbia. They were a long way from home and this city is fucking expensive to live in, they almost had no choice about it. Stiles steps onto the concrete floor of the basement and promptly slips and falls on his ass, he rethinks not having a choice about this. He could be a barista, boring yes, but no slime.

Crawling to his feet is a messy process, Stiles tries to not think about it. Which is easy because he sits up and comes face to face with the gateway. The vertical yawning black pool is twice the size of last time, taking up the brick wall from top to bottom, it looks like a still liquid puddle going against all the laws of physics. No matter the magical properties someone infuses it with water doesn’t behave like this. Drooling veins creep out from it in all directions covering the other walls and floor—the gateway is a growing thing. Eventually it can overtake the whole building. On the floor there are suspicious plops of black gunk that drag under Mrs. Shipton’s damnable herb cabinets.

The air smells of wet soil and something else that’s bitter, acrid, and decidedly poisonous. He feels watched, Stiles eyes the pool deciding its best to not turn his back to it or get too close again—lost phones and all. A force of some kind surrounds the gateway that urges things closer, to touch; Stiles had only meant to take an up-close photo last time when he’d realized he’d gotten too close. The edge of his phone accidently skimmed the surface and was sucked into it in a nanosecond.

Behind him Stiles hears a grotesque squelch.

“You okay down there, sweetheart?” Mrs. Shipton calls down the stairs.

Stiles bites back a sarcastic response fueled by his hairs on his arm standing up, “Fine! Just…keep the door shut will you!?”

Keep the door shut, because something got out.

Bound to happen, really, it’s a gateway. He’s just lucky it wasn’t something the size of the building, maybe if the portal was bigger…nope, not thinking about it.

He follows the trail of wet drag marks and the unsettling sounds to the cabinets, the big wooden monstrosities are way too heavy for him to push and he’s not stupid enough to find a broom handle and get on the floor to poke beneath it. Instead he goes with the tried and true method of smoking creepy critters out of their creepy little hobbit holes, the special blend of incense he brought with him is handmade and needs to be lit to cleanse the area anyway.

Incense lighting is a usual part of gateway closing. Usually the gateways Stiles closes are because of dumb kids with Ouija boards or other dumb kids deciding to say a little fun incantation before playing games like the Midnight Man and getting their parents’ houses infested with asshole spirits or just contracting general bad mojo that makes pipes burst all the time or something. Nothing this…extreme. Portals like this, gateways, can attract some serious heavy hitters. Stiles shudders and lights the mass of herbs and resins in a small cast iron caldron he bought in the camping section at Wal-Mart.

The effect is immediate. Breathing is a little better the longer the mix burns. Once he sets the cauldron down next the cabinets he hears wet distressed thumbing noises beneath. Two black blobs shoot from under the cabinets heading straight for Stiles’ legs, he shrieks—a very masculine shriek mind you, and leaps over them almost slipping again but managing to save himself by throwing his arms out. The resulting ten minutes is nothing but Stiles swerving and dodging the little creatures trying to herd them back through the gateway.

Stiles skitters over right in front of the portal then braces himself while the blobs slowly encroach on him. All at once they throw themselves at his face more similar to the horrid baby aliens in Alien than escaped death jelly rolls, Stiles ducks out of the way at the last possible moment. He hears what can only be described as a slow motion splash in reverse and he turns on his heel fast as he can. The two blob creatures are gone.

Sweet Morrigan, he’s gonna have nightmares about that for a while.

Wasting no more time Stiles clears a space and brings his brightly burning incense back to the portal. He gets a feeling of irritation from it which is even creepier, gateways are not supposed to be sentient. Aware of all the maliciousness being directed at him Stiles quickly draws a binding circle on the cold floor in chalk grimacing whenever his hand touches something wet. An assortment of objects get placed at the cardinal directions of the circle representing the four elements of the earthly realm and at the center Stiles presses his own palm bloodied from the pocket knife he keeps with all his house call supplies.

In a hushed voice Stiles chants,  
“Old Babd of war drum’s sound  
Lend me power for this circle round  
Get me off this gross-ass floor  
And help me shut this fucking door.  
So mote it be, so mote it be, so mote it be!”

Stiles was never the best rhymer, much to his mother’s amusement. His hastily scrawled chalk lines glow blood red and the chill in the air evaporates as sparks of magic tingle through Stiles’ fingers. The portal trembles and starts to whirlpool then the topography of black veins seemingly growing from it start to retreat. It reminds him of a drain in a bathtub sucking down muddy water. The gateway behaves the same way except when all its reaching parts return to it the portal keeps whirling in on itself until there’s nothing but a strange translucent sheen where it had once been.

Sighing Stiles hangs his head and mourns this clothes. Working magic doesn’t make him tired, usually its quite the opposite, getting up at the crack of dawn to deal with yawning pits to other worlds does. He’ll have to stop for coffee on the way back, coffee is where the majority of his tired brain is at so its understandable Stiles doesn’t notice the herb cabinet wiggle, just a bit. He does hear a single glass bottle filled with what smells like meadow’s sweet shatter on the floor. Stiles jumps up and sees a small black mass no bigger than his fist dart from the cabinet to the stairs.

“Oh. _No_.”

Mrs. Shipton chooses this awful moment to crack open the door, “Sweetie? Everything all right down there?”

It’s a race to the top of stairs, the blob is more interested in getting out than flying at Stiles’ face which normally he would approve of however there is a city of perfectly unware of the supernatural people out there and this creepy little thing would have the military called in. Stiles barely gets to the top before the blob, he slams the door shut and orders the old woman to find him a container—preferably something not see-through.

He hears her hurry off to do as she’s told while he glares into the dark corners of the basement where the blob disappeared into. Mrs. Shipton swiftly cracks the door and tosses a plastic container with a lid on it down the stairs.

It’s a Cool Whip bowl.

Stiles picks it up and has to admit, it’ll probably work, “Okay, little dude, I won’t hurt you. I promise.” Which is a bold-faced lie, if that thing comes at his face like its little siblings did he’ll toss it in a fucking microwave. But Stiles’ dad is a Sheriff, meaning he’s a freaking good liar. Though he isn’t exactly lying either, if flubber is chill he will be chill right back.

“If you could get into this bowl here that would be awesome, I’ll take you home with me and then we can figure out how to get you back where you belong. No offense but the Bronx doesn’t look like your natural habitat.” Stiles is pretty sure he’s talking to himself. English doesn’t seem like a language a sentient dollop of motor oil jam would know.

Stiles has been known to be wrong before, many times actually, magic is a tricky business. And its looking like he’s wrong again. The blobs slowly moves toward him, the slowest he’s seen these things move, in a perilous worm crawl. Carefully he sets the plastic tub down like it’s a bomb ready to go off. The blob hesitates then slides over the bowl’s edge.

“Holy shit.” Stiles whispers.

He kneels down and snaps the lid on. The weight of the thing moving around in his hand gives him the heebie jeebies. All in all, could have gone way worse.

Mrs. Shipton gives him a money order on the way out that Stiles internally sighs at but accepts with a smile. She promises to be more careful in the future in the same sincere way she did last time. By the time Stiles gets back on the street the silvery winter morning has given way to a sun-warmed noon.  
Normally he takes a bus and walks a ways to get back home but his current companion makes him nervous, he coughs up the money for a taxi instead. The driver is a bushy-faced ginger man who eyes the bowl but says nothing save the polite chit-chat about the holiday season and the where-to’s. Stiles is a chatter box however at the moment he’s tired and grateful making him leave the man with a tip larger than he can really afford. The money order will more than make up for it.

  
Home is sprawling brick apartment complex, like Mrs. Shipton’s place, its pre-war with honest to Morrigan gargoyles perched at its highest points. Personally Stiles thinks witches are just drawn to the older places. All that energy is just floating around ready to get plugged in to something. It’s not an expensive place to live but it’s not small-town affordable either. The owner is an in-the-know human whose deceased mother did fortunes, she gives Stiles a small discount on rent for doing tarot readings for her every once in a while. He loves this place. From the brick, to the old timey looking mailboxes to the pried-out elevator button for the seventh floor no one is allowed to go to for unknown reasons. He loves his hometown, he’s dad is there, some of their currently spread out pack is there, but this city and this place feels meant to be. With or without the dark portals.

Stiles hurries past the entry doors and marvels that no one is waiting on the open elevator. He does a careful little half jog trying to not disturb the Cool Whip bowl or its contents. He murmurs to it, “Almost there little guy.” He presses the button for the fourth floor and then twice for good measure.

As the elevator doors slide close a hand shoots roughly between them and in steps the one person in their entire building that might legitimately hate Stiles. Derek Hale is his neighbor. As in lives right across the hall neighbor. He’s got a habit of grimacing like he smells something bad whenever Stiles is around and other than telling Stiles to move he’s never said a word to him. Never responds to Stiles trying to be nice, which is probably the most infuriating thing because Stiles is not that nice of a person. Oh, he can fake it till he makes it but jokes have been made about Stiles and the surlier wizards in fairytales. Animals and kids get the asshole pass and it’s not like Stiles is usually rude right off the bat. Stiles is consistently nice-ish to Hale and Hale consistently ignores him altogether. Which comes to the reason why Stiles is nice to him, Hale and his sister are werewolves. Lydia pressed upon him the importance of befriending the local wolves, or least the nearest wolves—no pack claims New York, the city is too big and as with most cities it’s a hub of supernatural activity and creatures. Packs aren’t willing to squabble over neighborhoods like street gangs either, tradition is still a big thing for wolves. Even Stiles knew that and his pack is the most unconventional one probably on the hemisphere.

Point is, play nice with the wolves. Unfortunately Derek Hale is also, painfully gorgeous. Stiles wants to put a paper bag over his head every time he sees him because a) that’s just not fair and b) he could make a doggie bag joke. He’d die right after but he would die laughing which is the preferred method he wants to go.

Hale shoulders in decked out in his customary leather jacket and jeans that were, in the opinion of the whole floor, a shade too tight. He’s staring right at him wearing maybe the angriest expression the dude has ever leveled at him. Hale doesn’t move, simply glowering at him until Stiles fidgets. He doesn’t want to draw attention the container but he feels his temper raising.

Then, in a gruff voice, “You’re bleeding.”

“What.”

Hale is suddenly in his space, far too close to be polite, Stiles flinches back hard and that seems to snap Hale out of whatever he’s thinking. Finishing the job he thinks someone else started maybe. Hale backs up but looks impossibly angrier.

“You’re _bleeding_.”

Stiles’ hand twitches and, oh, yeah, “Um, hazards of the job.”

Hale is close enough still Stiles can see the faint glowing of blue in his eyes, and well, fuck, he knows what those mean. The bigger man leans in a little once more scenting the air so obviously Stiles fights a blush—he hates that, he had a long discussion with Scott about personal boundaries Alpha or no Alpha. His magic flares beneath his skin ready to go on the defensive when Hale just as easily steps away again.

The doors ding close behind Hale and he says without looking at Stiles, “Find a different job.”

That has Stile’s mouth gaping a little bit, because that shit sounds like an order not a suggestion for his continued well-being. Incredulously Stiles sneers, “Sure thing buddy I’ll get right on that never.”

This is why Stiles thinks Hale really hates him: he hates what Stiles is, what he must leak around like car exhaust wherever he goes. Magic. Shifters can’t use magic directly and not having access to something makes people fearful, look at human’s history with the witchcraft trials. Werewolves have emissaries of course but emissaries and witches aren’t in the same part of the DnD manual, ya know? Much to Scott’s dismay, he’d really wanted Stiles or Lydia to fill the position but neither was willing to tie themselves to their hometown like that nor be trained by Doctor Deaton in the ways of balance and non-interference. Screw that, Stiles is the interfering type. He’ll interfere like a motherfucker. Anything else is impractical, anything else is sounds too much like letting people die for a code. Fuck codes honestly.

It’s the only explanation Stiles has and the evidence pretty much proves it. Hale makes a face, an I-might-be-in-physical-pain face and spends the ride up silent sending wrathful looks at Stiles’ hand and once or twice at the cool whip bowl. Par for the course, Derek normally goes out of his way to avoid Stiles completely. Stiles’ disappointment and his anger do a short tango before settling down to his own brand of silent treatment, which is not silent at all. He hums Maria Carry’s All I Want For Christmas because ‘tis the Yuletide season and Hale looks like the type of person who is fundamentally, nay, genetically opposed to holiday cheer.

Hale starts to look stricken, Stiles bites the inside of his cheek to prevent the victorious grin from spilling across his face. The doors ding open and Hale is out of there in a hot second those long legs of his leave Stiles in the dust. Hale looks just as good leaving as he does coming though…wait. Stiles blushes hot and hurries to his own door, awkwardly at the same moment Hale unlocks his. Hale glances back at him for some reason, probably smelling all of Stiles’ R rated thoughts, before stepping inside.

You didn’t need to be werewolf to hear Stiles’ sigh of relief.

Once inside his own apartment he settles. The air still smells of sandalwood from the day before making mini good luck bottles for the next exam time. Stiles gently places the Cool Whip container on his kitchenette counter on the only clear spot, everything else is covered in dried herbs, jars filled with the kind of stuff they used to decorate horror sets, so much fucking string, and his work in progress Book of Shadows. Right under his book is his Mom’s halfway finished one, hers would never be done, but what she does have in there has been invaluable to him.

His Mom used to say, ‘A witch’s work is never done.’ Stiles clicks on his coffee pot and gets down to proving her right. First thing’s first, he pours a circle around him and most of the kitchen area with his Costco sized container of Morton’s table salt, sometimes the movies got things right. He pours protective intent into the circle, he feels his ears pop the second the salt seals the circle.

“Okay, dude, I’m opening this thing up, don’t do anything…weird.” The lid comes off.

The little blobs is, huh, bigger. It fills the entirety of the bowl now, it rises up and flops over the edge of the bowl slowly onto the counter then expands and retracts, Stiles is pretty sure its stretching. A small tentacle stretches out from the main black of the dark mass and pushes the Cool Whip container off the counter mulishly.

“Oh, its gonna be that way, huh?”

The blob slumps, sulks? This is so out of his wheelhouse.

“You want a bigger bowl?” Stiles asks, considering his fresh interaction with Hale this isn’t the most idiot he’s felt today and that’s just sad.

  
The blob perks up physically and oddly enough Stiles can sense a lighter emotion coming from it. He felt emotions from it back in Mrs. Shipton’s place too now that he has the time to think on it. Stiles has no empathic abilities so that leaves one thing. Just what he wanted for Yule, a telepathic interdimensional mini monster. Fuck you, Santa.

Stiles searches his cabinets for a bowl. He finds a large wooden salad bowl Lydia bought as a set for his new apartment. He’s been here a year and has yet to use it, she’ll be delighted when she finds out he finally does. Once the blob cozies up inside the new lidless bowl it lets Stiles do some experiments. Even lets Stiles touch the black ‘skin’ with a single fingertip, the mass feels like a ball of wires beneath the slick façade. Sort like a bunch of tongue muscles in a ball. Yikes.

His prodding leads him to the back of his Mother’s Book of Shadows, or part of the book Stiles’ likes to remember as: Stiles don’t fuck with any of this shit or Mom will come back as a ghost to personally punch her own son in the dick. His mom was no saint and didn’t believe in dark magic as inherently evil, many believe his own family patroness goddess The Morrigan isn’t exactly on the light side of the force, but there were things that were flat-out dangerous to get mixed up in. There were forces and beings that drove practitioners insane or transformed them into something unrecognizable through no means but their whispering influence, soul stealers and world eaters. In his Mother’s book they are simply labeled The Outer Gods.

Where other spells and rituals in her books were accompanied by detailed drawings the section on the Outer Gods is pure text inked without any of the love the rest of her work had. There’s nothing that describes Stiles’ little bundle of joy exactly but his instincts keep dragging him back to one entry in particular, there are entities called the Dark Young however they generally came, uh, a helluva lot bigger. He reads the passage out loud and gets another zap of telepathic feedback from the blob, in Stiles’ brain it roughly translates ‘Yes! That’s me!’

“Oh. Oh wow, could you not be one of those?”

A door slams hard enough in the hallway for not only Stiles to hear but to make him jump, the spooky nature of his reading material didn’t help his easily startled nature. Laughing follows soon after, he thinks it’s Laura, Derek’s older sister and Alpha. Lydia made sure to make the proper introductions when Stiles moved in, Derek had been absent that little meeting. She laughs easy, at her brother in particular it seems, she’s the only reason Stiles ever found out previously labeled hot beardy werewolf’s name. Laura and Derek live together unlike Derek who is often around a Laura sighting is like seeing the Mothman. The two share sharp cheekbones, immaculate jawlines, and raven hair, personality wise? Night and day.

The laughing dies down quickly, long enough for Stiles to get distracted. He looks back down to catch a tentacle sucking back into the blob and with it half of a forgotten granola bar Stiles left between his jar of seashells and bundle of dried foxglove—not the best place to store food to be sure. The granola bar pops in the mass open package and all.

Stiles shakes his head, “Dude.”  
  
The blob reeks of satisfaction.

His Mother’s book has no instructions on opening a gateway of his own to send the blob back, quite the opposite. How to close portals? Yes. Protect your brain from being sucked out of your body and being used a human husk puppet? Yes, even that, the details are incredibly disturbing.

When Lydia sweeps through the front door in stylish winter gear five minutes later it’s a relief. It’s always a relief to see her, except for when its dread, those times are nearly always associated with shopping bags filled with clothes in his size. Once, there was an enchanted bottle of champagne involved but the events of that night were never to be spoken of again. She spends a lot of time at Stiles’ place as Stiles does hers, and it’s no surprise for her to show up whenever she pleases.

“I saw Eyebrows on the way out, he looked pissed, what did you do?” Her words are accusatory but she’s smirking.

Stiles scoffs, “What makes you think I did anything to him?”

“Because, he had that very recognizable Stiles encounter look on his face and he glared at me like your existence is my fault.” Lydia hefts her purse onto his tiny window table in the living room he kept clear of clutter for tarot readings. She notices the salt and the black Jell-O monster in the bowl, quirking an eyebrow she asks, “Is that something we should be worried about?”

Stiles tilts his hand back and forth in a maybe motion, “Eh? Undecided, probably the spawn of a quasi-divine fertility eldritch goddess. It likes granola so that’s a mark in the evil column.”

“Granola is healthy for you.”

“I eat what I’m given, but I think the Hales were fighting or something before you got here. Derek rode with me up the elevator though! I mean he was weird about the magic thing, there might be hope for him not being the worst ever in the future. Maybe? With time and space?”

She stares at the blob, “Shouldn’t you be more concerned? About the…Eldritch god in your salad bowl?”

“Baby, Lydia, baby Eldritch god. Godling? But the important part! Didn’t you hear me? Hot beardy werewolf in 42A took the elevator up with me! By Choice! And you know he didn’t even threaten me once, progress!”

“Oh,” Lydia watches the inky black mass in the bowl writhe and for a moment she thinks she sees an itty bitty circular mouth full of pointed teeth, “I heard you.” She narrows her eyes, “Is that bowl from the Nambe wood set I bought for you?”

“Um.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. She pulls off her coat and scarf and plops down on his sofa then produces a sleek smartphone from her pocket along with a pair of simple glasses she slips on. The phone has a pearlescent sheen not found on any Apple store shelf; it’s her ‘working’ phone. When it came down to it, even if Lydia doesn’t prefer doing things old school like Stiles, the phone is her own Book of Shadows with an upside his own doesn’t have. Internet.

Down to business Lydia asks, “You got this thing from that old bat didn’t you?”

“Woah, rude.” Stiles feels nothing from the blob so taking his books with him he steps out of the circle and reseals it behind him.

“Stiles, no one ‘accidentally’ opens a portal in their basement three times. I came over to make sure your place is ready for the twins tomorrow, not by the way, so I can bad mouth that old wench as much I want. How do you not even have mistletoe up?” She flips her hair and draws a sigil on her phone screen to unlock it. Hackers and thieves stood no chance.

Stiles grabs his laptop too and sits next to her, “She’s a lonely old lady, Lyds, have a heart.”

Lydia eyes him, “She’s lonely so she summons demons?”

“One, not a demon, two, we all cope in different ways.” Stiles’ overgrowing herb collection is a testament to that, “three, why do they have to stay with me?”

“As if I’m letting them stay in my apartment. And besides they miss their pa—”

“Don’t you fucking say it.”

Gleefuly Lydia smiles, “Pack mom.”

Stiles groans.

“Just accept it, if McCall is dad you are automatically the mom.”

“Shouldn’t that be Allison? Scott’s literal fiancée?”

“Who do they call when Scott doesn’t want to budge on something. You. Who makes sure the pack actually sees each other over breaks? You. And who brews up cold killer potions for the non- werewolves every fall?”

“Me.” Stiles sighs.

She pats his cheek, “You’ll make a great house witch for some guy one day.”

“Rude and also wrong on so many levels. Fine, they can stay here, whatever.” The fight Stiles puts up about it is mostly for show, while he’s protective of his space he also loves people. Pack in particular. Lydia knows this all already.

Lydia brings up a few return to sender options for Stiles. All she had to do was open her Tor browser and read through a few forums on the darker side of the force geared specifically to the supernatural community. One she runs herself. Most online stuff for supernaturals exist on the darknet forcing even the most technologically illiterate to learn the ins and outs of the interwebs.

She sends the promising stuff to Stiles’ email with a cringing expression. Physical rituals are not her favorite things ever, the bodily fluids is a little much for her. As a kid Stiles wasn’t that great with blood but got over it, eventually. Most witches were fine with blood, then again most witches had a vagina—magic ran easier through female blood lines but males could receive the gift too from time to time. Blood is not Lydia’s problem, no, most of the rituals she’s found required the participant to offer up a less vital but no less personal fluid. Stiles flushes. Well, he is trying to send a kid back to its dark nebulous fertility goddess mom. It makes an uncomfortable amount of sense. This is the kind of shit that makes Lydia prefer magical coding and motherboards over salt and stones.

Stiles cuts up the rituals into something of his own, taking the best parts of each and adding his own witchy style. What he lacks in rhyming ability he makes up for in planning. Stiles has a natural talent at building his own spells. Spells by nature can be dangerous, there is a reason witches go for the old grimoires. Tried and true methods are safe, what Stiles does quite frequently would make conservative you-must-have-a-teacher-until-you-are-like-fucking-thirty witches break out in hives.

Lydia moves to hover over his shoulder, making approving hums and disapproving huffs in turns until the finished product is sealed with a shitty clipart picture of dog skateboarding. He prints it out in his bedroom, thanks to Lydia the printer doesn’t need to be plugged in and thanks to Stiles never needs to have the ink refilled.

“Think we should tell’em they’re going to be walking into some gnarly witchy shit before they get here?” Stiles asks. He has all the ingredients save one and Lydia already has an overnight order on it. Until then all Stiles has to do is be, he frowns, anxious about house guests. House guests of all shapes and sizes and…species?

Lydia hums thoughtfully then whisks into his kitchen avoiding the salt circle, “It’s not like they ever warned us about their gnarly werewolf shit. Surprise is the flavor of life, or something, right?” She questions with her head in his fridge, she brings out a box of pink moscato wine with her.

The box is the kind that comes with a spicket aka the only kind they buy because this is just the way it is with devotees of The Morrigan and Hekate.

“You know it’s like just past noon, right?” Stiles accepts a full plastic cup anyway.

“We have decorating to do, and we need to clear out your guest space. And an embodiment of evil is napping on your kitchen counter. I think a drink or two is warranted. Plus I ordered veggie pizza from Ray’s, you’ll be fine lightweight.”

“I don’t think it’s completely evil. Creepy, sure, a little slimy. Actually I was thinking of naming the little dude Theo.”

Lydia faux pouts, “You know it hurts Liam’s feelings that you hate his boyfriend.

“Don’t care.”

“Pack mom.”

“Why are you giving me so much grief?”

“That was a two hundred dollar salad bowl set, Stiles.” No grudge like a Lydia Martin grudge.

Stiles points an accusing finger at her, “You have a spending problem.”

“So?” she tastes her own glass, makes a displeased face then takes another larger gulp, “And you have a trust problem.

Ah, so it was going to be one of those days. Stiles downs half his glass and for some reason thinks of Derek Hale, “So?”

Lydia’s laughter always has an edge of meanness to it but then again, so does Stiles’. The two witches are buzzed by three, once the box was empty Stiles dug around his freezer for a bottle of cheap vodka he usually used for spell jars. The stuff tastes like lighter fluid. Cheap alcohol is a sure fire way to get to the root of a problem. While Lydia did come over for the twins and stayed for the interdimensional curiosity her real reason for coming is pretty much confirmed by the wine and then later in her own words.

Days before Yule and Christmas. What a shitty time for a breakup.

Aiden was an asshole anyway, Stiles lists all the ways Aiden was asshole for Lydia as they hang garland because he’s a good friend. Unfortunately the whole comforting thing highlights his own lack of a real relationship and they end up drinking a little more than they should. They fall asleep right there on the sofa together, despite being the taller broader one Stiles ends up as the little spoon. He’s fine with this.

  
Stiles wakes up to the sound of jars breaking on the floor, he’s hazy to alert in seconds. It’s pretty dark outside at 7:30 so Stiles fumbles in the dark to where he keeps his rowan wood baseball bat—a gift from his dad who had delivered it the day he left for college with seriousness and an ominous ‘It’s not just good for werewolves’. Their fucking lives, man. He flips the kitchen lights on and can’t really decide if he should keep holding the bat or not. Theo the blob creature has tripled in size, the tentacles are much more obvious now and at the center of the mass lazily blinking is a red eye that if it weren’t for the blood red color would look right at home on a goat.

“Hi…” Stiles says waving his free hand.

The not-so-blob-like-anymore blob barely moves a tentacle in response however the motion is unmistakable, it’s waving back.

The voice of what Santa Claus sounds like in every movie he’s ever watched echoes in Stiles’ head: Ho Ho Holy shit. He chokes on a smothered laugh. There are no bowls in his apartment big enough for this. No totes either. Stiles resolves to put the…okay, he’s just going to own up to it, baby god. Stiles resolves to pick up the baby god and put it in the only place he can, the bathtub. Wonder of wonders the baby god lets him, it rumbles as Stiles gently get his arms beneath it and heaves it up more like a cranky cat than the literal horror it is. Waves of contentment get pushed at him after Stiles lays the creature into the cold tub.

A bit hysterical Stiles says, “Okay. Goodnight…I guess.” He flips the bathroom lights out and shuts the door deciding to leave the mess for the proper morning. Never one to be accused of being too trusting Stiles grabs his ol’ reliable chalk and draws a sigil on the bathroom door, a quick bulwark against ill-intent. Stiles throws a blanket over Lydia on the sofa on his way to his bedroom. He goes face-first into his pillows, grateful the slight headache he has heralds a not so terrible hangover in the morning.

When the morning actually comes and is announced by repetitive thunder Stiles is disappointed and also somewhat murderous. Solace is taken by the knowledge that Lydia is between him and the thundering, between the two niether of them are not exactly opposed to violence though Lydia is more likely to keep the mess to a minimum, the land lady will appreciate that. The alarm clock by his bed reads 9:30, not early at all. In fact Stiles is surprised by how late they slept. They knocked themselves out early, alcohol or not they shouldn’t have been out this long. Not to say they were Coyote Ugly extras but this is hardly their first rodeo.

Stiles wanders into the living room at the same time Jackson says, “Jesus Christ, Stilinski.”

Lydia is up, her fiery hair is all over the place and her glasses are skewed. The glass and herbs are still all over the floor, Stiles’ bat is resting against the counter and to top it all off the empty wine box and vodka bottle are still on his rickety coffee table. Malia peaks over her brother’s shoulder, makes a face at everything, then shoulder pasts him roughly dragging luggage behind her.

“You guys are early.” Stiles says dully.

Jackson sneers, “I can see that.”

Apparently, the twins had decided to take an earlier flight. Forecasters predicted heavy snows soon, and the siblings understandably didn’t want to be stuck in Beacon Hills or some shady layover airport. They started NYU classes at the beginning of the January semester but wanted to come early to get used to the city and learn their way around. Stiles, Lydia, and Jackson had graduated together but Jackson took a gap year and then some to start college with his sister, he’ll say it was to travel around and drink mojitos but the pack knew the truth.

The siblings aren’t really twins, in fact they shared only one mysterious parent. Malia was found in the woods stuck as a coyote and then later adopted by the Whittemore’s after they found out she was in the same car Jackson’s parents were in when they died. Their whole family situation is Complicated capital C. Everyone had thought the youngest of the family had been dragged off by predators. They’d been wrong. Jackson quickly became protective of his sister and she him, they shared the same hot temper and were often seen together but it was their beta form’s faces that earned them the nickname the twins. Jackson is a wolf and Malia a coyote but side by side in the midst of a fight they were two halves of the same soul. Jackson is still a world-class jackass most of the time but having a sister did him a lot of good, he’s a little easier to bear when Malia is around. Not that it mattered, Lydia is right, pack is pack and Stiles, well, he loved them.

Lydia pulled her hair in a manageable bun while Stiles swept up class, Jackson leans in on the way by so Lydia can’t hear them, “Breakup?”

Stiles nods.

Jacksons eyes flash brilliant blue for half a second, “Got his address?”

“Lyds can take care of herself and I don’t have an address.”

Unimpressed, Jackson gives Stiles a look. Stiles huffs, “But I may know where he works.”

The grin he gets in return is full of teeth, his own lips quirk in response. He can’t help it. Jackson feeds his mean streak.

Despite having just got in the twins aren’t tired, freaking shapeshifter energy. Lydia wants to take Malia shopping someplace that doesn’t sell denim overalls. Her words, not Stiles’ who wears the same pair skinny jeans for days at a time and knows better than to question the girl who ate raw bunny rabbits on the regular. Lydia needs something more to do since the overnight shipping is taking longer than it should. There is no package waiting from him outside his door nor at the reception desk on the first floor. It was the first thing Stiles did while the twins settled in and once he was done getting the glass off the floor, glass which was inseparable from his painstakingly dried herbs and even more painstakingly crushed crystals. Pitfalls of bringing baby gods into your kitchen he supposes.

Empty-handed and in need of a fresh shirt Stiles goes digging through his dresser from his bedroom he hears Lydia and Malia call out their see you later’s and the front door shut. Loudly Jackson complains about needing a shower and heads that direction muttering about Stiles’ tiny apartment the whole time. At that Stiles bristles because at this price point in New York City his place is fucking amazing thank you very much. Stiles makes mental note to turn the hot water on in the kitchenette when Jackson starts the shower.

He doesn’t get the chance.

One second Stiles is haphazardly fighting a shirt on and thinking about making his bed a like a real adult the next there’s high pitched shrieking coming from his bathroom. Not the most ideal response. Nearly tripping over his own feet he rushes in to find Jackson plastered against the admittedly ugly bathroom tiles. He’s wolfed-out and white as a sheet staring at the bathtub with wide eyes. The baby god is even bigger now, taking up the whole tub. Tentacles writhe all around it, the big red eye stares back at them, at the bottom of its form stick out two new additions: goat hooves as pitch black as the rest of it. Stiles blinks, an explanation is on his tongue ready to go. Sort of, but his explanation doesn’t get the chance either. Just as Stiles tugs Jackson up he flinches at what suspiciously sounds like his front door being broke down.

Deciding an intruder is a bigger threat than Theo the baby eldritch horror god who has yet to do anything beyond eat his food and break his stuff Stiles runs back out intent on retrieving his bat. But he freezes when he sees that, yes, that was in fact his door being broke down—into three fucking pieces, and the culprit is Derek Hale grumpy neighbor extraordinaire. A smattering of wood dust lingers in the air, caught in beams of sunlight from the living room windows. Despite Stiles’ occupation his apartment has always felt warm, Hale standing there dark and ready to throw down doesn’t clash as much as it should.

“Don’t be afraid.” Hale says, sharp teeth extruding from his mouth and his eyes burning electric blue.

Stiles doesn’t know what he is supposed to not be afraid of, “What.”

Hale growls, “Get behind me!”

“What.”

Still wolfed out, Jackson stumbles out of the bathroom too running into Stiles in the process. To Stiles Jackson looks like a confused gremlin fed after midnight. The roar Hale let’s out rattles the cabinets and makes Stiles feel like he’s choking on air. Jackson roars right back and pushes Stiles out of the way, Hale follows the motion with a jerk of his head.

This is not the first time Stiles has been between the claws and fangs of two coiled werewolves ready to go at each other’s throats, he’s not about to be swayed by some manhandling. Especially manhandling by a guy who chose the smallest towel in Stiles’ closet, for fuck’s sake Jackson.

Stepping between them Stiles holds his hands out effectively feeling like a traffic cop, “What the fuck is going on!?”

At this Hale hesitates, “There was…there was screaming!” Somehow he makes that sound like an accusation and not a legitimate worry. The guy really needs to work on his cadence.

Stiles drops his arms, “So you broke down my _door_!?”

Hale ignores his question, “You’re not afraid… You know about werewolves.” Again with the cadence. He continues to look like he wants to tear Jackson a new one.

“I’m not in danger or anything.” Stiles goes with his talking down Scott after a ‘situation’ voice, “This is Jackson, he’s staying here for a while. Werewolf or not I don’t feel like I should have to clear that with you or your Alpha.”

The fangs recede slowly, it makes Stiles’ gum itch, less slurred Hale says, “My Alpha.”

“Uh, Laura?”

“Laura.” Something thunderous goes across Hale’s face before melting back to seemingly default blankness. Hale stares at Stiles and then at Jackson then turns and stomps out the obliterated doorway.

“What the fuck, man?” Jackson shouts, “Seriously, what the fuck! Who the fuck was that! What the fuck is in your bathtub!?”

Stiles sighs, “I’m not talking to you without pants on.”

Jackson tightens his hold on his towel and furiously picks his way across the debris to the guest space, Stiles goes back into the bathroom. The confrontation leaves Stiles with a strange full body ache. He wants to go after Hale, do…something, instead he stays rooted to the bathroom floor, hands hanging limply at his sides unsure of what just happened. He doesn’t even flinch when he feels a cold, slick, vaguely scaly tentacle wrap gingerly around his pinkie finger. Stiles peers down into the black mass filling the tub almost to the brim. A big red eye blinks at him and a wave of something apologetic, comforting, washes over him.

“Thanks, dude.” He says to the probably non-binary primordial being, “Sorry I was going to name you Theo. You’re so much better than a Theo.”

Five mouths, oh hey those weren’t there before, blow bubbles at him and the dark form rumbles a bit before retracting all its tentacles back into the tub until it stops moving completely. Stiles has been assuming it falls asleep when it does that, but, honestly, there’s no real way to tell.

Jackson comes back around in different clothes than he took off smelling of Armani. Despite not taking a shower he seems very shower-fresh, Stiles hates him. He hates him the entire time he explains closing the portal in the old lady’s basement and hates him as he comes up short why Derek Hale would be so concerned to the point of breaking down his door. Jackson does not take it well, he’s a drama queen, so no big surprise there. After some ranting about leaving Beacon Hills for a reason and wanting a chill couple of weeks before starting classes he settles down. Stiles makes him some tea he lies about not liking and sends him on his merry way to terrorize Lydia’s ex because Jackson has some issues to work out with himself on that front—the whole they used to be in love but now are different people with different lives thing but who still really really care for one another. Stiles has always been more sympathetic to Lydia’s side of things. That she and Scotty are his favorites are no secret, sue him. Liam is a close third, if only because the kid sets off paternal instincts he never knew he had or wanted for that matter. Which doesn’t mean he’d give Jackson a bone once in a while.

Having an empty apartment again, not counting the bathtub resident, leaves a void in the aura of the place. An uncomfortable pang of loneliness seizes him while he sweeps up the wood shards into a pile and sets the smashed wood against a wall. Stiles always feels like that when people visit its stressful but when they leave its worse. He’s not even all that mad about Jackson not staying and helping. Well, okay, no he is mad about that. The guy is useless when it comes to household chores though, Liam would have helped.

Stiles is glad the irritation sticks around longer than the loneliness because werewolves can smell emotions and there’s a werewolf looming in his doorway. Again. Derek must have deliberately made noise so Stiles could hear him approaching down the hall. Stiles cocks an eyebrow at the new door and tools he’s carrying. He can put two and two together, but what comes out of his mouth is a smart ass, “Are you starting a collection?”

Derek winces, his eyes dart somewhere down the hall from whence he came so Stiles pokes his head out, not caring if he gets in Derek’s personal bubble or not, Laura’s standing out there. Her arms are on her hips, she offers Stiles a quick apologetic grin and glares at her brother. Angrily, Derek huffs.

“I’m. Sorry.” Derek mutters so near a growl Stiles jerks back into his apartment, that seems to concern Derek a little more, inexplicably the wolf’s expression softens, “I thought…someone was getting hurt. I’ll fix the door.”

Stiles could point out that was obvious but he really doesn’t want his neighbor to break any more doors, and most of all Stiles never put a door in before so fine. He lets Derek fix the door.

Laura vanishes from the hallway and Stiles is a little more uncomfortable for it. Maybe Derek can sense this because he avoids looking at Stiles at all costs, even as Stiles blatantly stares as the wolf removes busted hinges. Some of the frame is busted too, that has to be fixed first. Stiles didn’t realize just how many supplies Derek brought, half of it including a few tools are brand new with the tags still on them.  
  
Together they work in awkward silence until Stiles finishes cleaning up inside and is left with not much to do. The part of him that’s not blaring sirens inside his head that Derek Hale is pretty much in his apartment notes his overnight package still hasn’t arrived. It would worry him more if he weren’t so busy working over a few things he’d assumed about Hale, and had assumed Hale…Derek, he guesses it’s alright to call the guy that broke your door down by his first name, had assumed about Stiles in return.

Eventually, Stiles can’t stand it, “So,” he starts and Derek stills, “You didn’t know I knew about werewolves.”

Derek heaves a sigh, “No.”

“Or that…” Stiles gestures around his apartment that spoke volumes for him, he’s basically some gingerbread walls away from looking like the old witch who lives in the woods. Life goals.

Derek finally glances up, unhappy looking, “Laura never said anything.” Until now is implied. Makes a kind of sense, Stiles supposed, he and Lydia only ever really introduced themselves to the Alpha. It’s odd though, to not tell your beta their neighbor is a witch.

“Huh,” Stiles steps a little closer peering down feeling a little gleeful he’s making Derek feel obviously offkilter, karma, dude, “That’s just your face isn’t it?”

His eyebrows go down and, yep, that’s legitimate pissy-ness right there, “What.”

“Nothing!” Stiles jerks back, his need to poke the bear, er, werewolf , is sated.

He checks in on the bathroom real quick, relieved not-Theo is still chilling calmly. Next he gets to answering the barrage of texts Lydia sent since Jackson can’t keep from gossiping the latest news. Lydia is curious, Malia wants to come back and return the favor of property destruction, in most cases Stiles quietly approves of that instinct but again, this can’t be stated enough—Stiles doesn’t know how to hang a door. And Derek, from the glances Stiles keeps giving him, definitely does. The dude had a measuring tape out for fuck’s sake with a hammer slid into his belt so he wouldn’t have to bend down again like some sort of stay-at-home parent HGTV fantasy.

It’s. Distracting.

Stiles has a portal into a hell dimension to open, he didn’t need distractions.

What he does need is that package. Stiles sends out one more text to Lydia about it, she says she’ll call the company and he feels bad for whoever has to answer that call. In the meantime he puts coffee on and offers Derek a cup. Derek’s mouth goes a little slack in surprise, he nods after an unduly amount of apparent deliberation as if Stiles were offering a lot more than a sub-par cup of a joe. To Derek’s credit he doesn’t balk at drinking coffee out of a mug shaped like the Hulk’s head. Stiles has the whole Marvel set and very little impulse control without Scott, there was no way Derek wasn’t getting the Hulk.

Lydia calls as Derek finishes setting in the hinging, picking the sturdy wooden door up like a feather, Stiles might have a small amount of jealousy.

“Hello, light of my life.” The light aura Stiles and Derek somehow created immediately darkens the second Stiles greets his friend over the phone. Stiles frowns over at Derek’s hunching shoulders.

“Stiles,” Lydia’s voice is saccharine I-told-you-so sweet.

His stomach drops and Derek is suddenly giving him the elevator crazy eyes again.

“Do you remember,” Lydia says, “How I said Grandma Shipton was a suspicious old bat?”

Stiles winces, “I don’t think her grandchildren come visit anymore after her husband died, she’s bitter about it.”

Sweet turns sharp in an instant, “I called the shipping company. They said they delivered the package to you personally. The delivery girl said you had an older woman with you. This company works for our kind of people, Stiles. They are professional and don’t make mistakes like this.”

Okay, now Stiles’ skin is crawling, “You think she made a poppet of me?”

“More like fairy magic,” Lydia considers, “Changeling wood.”

“That’s…fucking awful. And high level shit, you need a lot of DNA to pull that off.”

“You went to her house three times. What does your dad always say?”

Stiles downs his coffee like a shot, “Twice is a coincidence, three is a pattern.”

Lydia hums on the other end of the line then hisses something to someone he can’t quite catch, “The security concerns of your apartment is making the puppies nervous. I’ll be bringing them home shortly then we’ll figure out what to do. By the way, Jackson caught up with us. Any reason why Aiden is accusing me of sending jocks to go beat him up?”

“Sounds like Aiden is paranoid, bad trait for an Alpha. Probably best you broke up with him.”

“Right. We will be talking about that later.”

“Sure.” Not if Stiles can avoid it. He can think of ten horrible things off the top of his head he would rather do, like dive into the Hudson in the middle of winter.

“Trouble in paradise?” A woman’s velvety voice says. Stiles jolts his head up from his phone then relaxes. Laura gives him a jaunty little wave from the open doorway, she’s relaxed and smiling slyly where her brother is tense and thin-lipped.

Stiles grins back her, “Something like that.”

“Have you two been together long?” Laura asks, the wording makes Stiles comfortable.

“Ha, you make it sound like we’re married. But I mean we went to the same school, didn’t really become friends until high school. Bonding through trauma and all that.” He waves his hand around like it’s no big deal rather than the source of a few nightmares once in a while.

Amused Laura repeats, “Friends?”

“What? Yeah, friends, oh…oh, no no Lydia and I aren’t um, together like that. She’s one of my best friends. At this point I couldn’t have made it here without her.” Maybe that was the Stockholm syndrome talking.

“What about the underwear model?”

“Um, Jackson?” Stiles abruptly understands what green around the gills means, “God no! They’re like family! All of them, no one—no one’s sleeping together, I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Well,” Laura’s smile has grown down right ecstatic, “the more you know. So sorry about the door by the way, my little brother has strong…protective instincts.”

“It’s, uh not okay exactly but he’s fixing it, so.” Stiles shrugs.

“Thanks, you should let us take you out sometime, you seem like the holiday latte type…as an apology.”

Stiles thought he knew the depth of Derek’s murder-faces, the way he looks at Laura is damning evidence that Stiles is occasionally wrong about people.

“I am the holiday latte type, who can say no to peppermint and mocha?” He says, “But don’t worry about it. Really.”

Laura’s discerning eyes look Stiles up and down and around the apartment in a way that Stiles can tell she’s using a bunch of other werewolfy senses before flicking between Derek and Stiles. She smirks purring her next words, “Let me know if you change your mind, Stiles.”

A hot flush creeps up Stiles’ neck, splotching his cheeks, “I, okay. I’ll do that?”

Growling, low and threatening, rumbles from Derek. Laura flashes her Alpha red eyes at him settling her beta down. Stiles is confused and doesn’t hide it, Laura only chuckles and rubs Derek’s spikey black hair as she leaves heading to her own door. Surprisingly Derek allows the touch, looks a bit apologetic over the odd outburst even.

  
The door gets finished in silence after that. Derek leaves just before Lydia, Malia, and Jackson come back with a baggie of warm bagels and divine smelling gourmet cream cheese. Stiles starts shoving them in his mouth as soon as possible and also tosses one next to the tub just to see what would happen. Sure enough a long tentacle ventures out, curls around the bagel and drags the offered food back into the tub. Stiles is kinda terribly fascinated by the whole thing. The grinding noises, the goat feet sticking out and sort of…kicking, like a happy little kid after getting ice cream, he wonders what the reaction to real ice cream would be. There’s probably some old adage somewhere about not feeding the monsters, but Stiles has been feeding monsters since his he was a freshman—he isn’t about to learn some convoluted life lesson about it now.

Quietly Stiles shuts the bathroom door when he turns Malia is right in his face having made no indication she was there before, the jumping and flailing is totally warranted.

Malia is ignores his surprise entirely, “The wolf that was here…smells weird.”

Crinkling her nose she leans into Stiles’ space again making short sniffing sounds. Stiles is feeling vaguely cornered against the door, that’s just Malia’s way of talking to people one on one. Which is probably a coyote thing however Stiles doesn’t like thinking about that too much since that made him the rabbit in this situation.

Malia leans back out and side-eyes him, “Smells…weird.” She says again more suspicious.

“Thank you for your input,” Stiles slides past her, “I’ll spray some Febreeze later, okay?”

Her lip curls—a mirror of an expression that’s been on Jackson’s face since kindergarten, “That crap smells like chemicals.”

“Febreeze irritates your super sniffer but that thing in the bathroom doesn’t?” Stiles asks.

“It doesn’t smell bad,” she shrugs, “kind of like the woods after a hard rain and all the night crawlers are out.”

“Huh.”

“The other wolf doesn’t smell bad either.”

“…Okay?”

Malia nods, slaps him too hard on the shoulder and returns to Lydia’s side on the sofa. Stiles is pretty sure he’s missed something in that conversation. He shoves it firmly in the worry about it later part of his brain, it’s a getting to be a crowded space.

“That door is better than your old one.” Lydia comments off-hand while doing something to Stiles’ laptop. Her glasses are back on, which can only mean trouble for some unlucky soul.

“I’m so glad you’re happy with it.” Stiles glowers over the last bagel, breaking it in half and shoving the ends into the little container of cream cheese.

“Shouldn’t we be more worried about a Stilinski puppet walking around, like the world needs two of him.” Jackson says.

Unable to control it Stiles shivers, “God, that’s so fucking creepy.” A huge understatement if there ever was one, however worse things have worn his face than a chunk of enchanted wood.

“Yeah.” Jackson agrees in a tone that implies Stiles is an idiot. He looks around for something to throw, Jackson notices and leans in next to Malia, the coward.

“I just have to find and burn it, bind Mrs. Shipton and get back what she stole. That’s basically a plan right there.”

Lydia looks up from the computer and sighs, “I can’t believe we survived high school.”

“Hey! My plans were awesome!”

Everyone gives him a look.

“But did you die?” Stiles hisses because that’s the real takeaway here.

“Some people did.” Malia points out helpfully and a touch too brightly.

Stiles shrugs, “None of our people though, we got to take the wins where we can kids. I’ll visit Mrs. Shipton in a couple of hours.”

“You’re not handling this on your own.” Lydia’s giving him the glare-down over the rim of her glasses, it reminds Stiles of their elementary school librarian, he’d rather die than say that out loud though.

“I need someone here that can work a wards and sigils,” he points to Lydia, “And I know for a fact Mrs. Shipton has mountain ash. She’s been around, watching apparently, she’ll know I know shifters. I can deal with one slightly skilled old lady by myself. I’ve dealt with worse.”

He knows they see his logic, that doesn’t change the immediate uproar of glowing eyes and low growling. Stiles feels bad that he’s as warmed by the protectiveness as he is.

“Dudes, I appreciate the concern, seriously, but I can handle myself and if not then you guys are the first people I call.” Stiles starts packing some heavier hitting stuff into his messenger bag while they deliberate his competence. Run into danger once or twice when you’re sixteen and it haunts you for life.

By the time he’s ready to leave Malia and Jackson are more accepting of the situation if not miffed that their pre-classes time is being taken up by what is technically Stiles’ job. Lydia is shadily quiet. She still has his laptop and at this point Stiles is a little too afraid to ask.

“I’ll be fine,” He says to her while pulling his Columbia hoodie over his head. The hoodie is probably too light for the weather. His only other jacket still has interdimensional slime all over it. Laundry day isn’t until Sunday and Stiles will be damned before he goes down to the first floor with his basket before then.

Lydia’s smile is slow and sure, “Yes, you will be. Keep your phone on.”

He sends her a mock salute on the way out the door, “Yes, Ma’am. Be good kids, maybe don’t open the bathroom door.”

With that Stiles leaves, the room behind him left uncomfortable and full of renewed worry for not just Stiles but also for themselves. The thing in the bathtub has feet now, more or less, there’s a reason for unease. Stiles is less worried than he thinks he should be, considering what his Mother says about the Dark Young. He’s only ever dealt with three and the one he took home doesn’t exactly reek of evil mind melting intent. A case of nature versus nurture maybe, he doesn’t get the sense it’s going to harm anyone. More like contentment really, enough of a chill vibe to leave not-Theo in the capable hands of Lydia.

Stiles has never been a one problem at a time kind of guy, he’s not wired that way so he goes over the Dark Young lore, Mrs. Shipton, winter semester, and Derek over and over until he’s back at Mrs. Shipton’s building staring down the sagging brick face of it with a spark of anger he has to be there at all. He had under charged Mrs. Shipton every time she called. This is where being nice gets you. Stiles gets even angrier, he should have learned that lesson in high school.

Potted plants of mostly the flowering fragrant sort sit withered from the cold all around the steps, what was just a natural part of winter more sinister today than yesterday. The colors are more muted, the windows darker, and Stiles knows that’s just a trick of his mind because his perception has changed—he knows plenty of things, it doesn’t stop him from being nervous and in turn being nervous never stopped Stiles from doing anything either. He takes a large chunk of quartz tied into a makeshift pendulum using copper-infused cord from his bag and approaches the porch. A dull light glows from the crystal, easily dismissed as a trick of the light by passersby, showing that the door is definitely warded. It’s a basic defense, not inherently malignant in any way or deadly. He drags his fingertips carefully across the door drawing the power out like poison then mutters an unlock charm under his breath. The door clicks open with an unfortunate creepy creak.

Not a single light is on inside, growing darker still by the quickly setting winter sun. He turns on his trusty flashlight and goes in. To Stiles’ shock, the place is empty, no furniture, no prints of Monet paintings on the wall, nothing where once there had most definitely been someone’s whole life. Years upon years of sedentary living stripped down to bare floors in no time at all. Someone was rather motivated.

Stiles moves, actually full-on tip-toes through each room with his crystal resisting the excruciating urge to hum the Mission Impossible theme as he goes. Each room is as bare as the last and slightly cool from the heater not running, insulation is really crap in these older buildings—Stiles’ is much the same. No room has any traps like he’s expecting either or any well-placed lines of mountain ash. Irritated he’s possibly made the trip for nothing Stiles goes to the last place he has left to check. The basement.

Stiles is pretty awesome at lying to himself, this time he’s not going to. He was avoiding the basement on purpose. Despite his apprehension his go-to bad juju detector crystal gives no sign there’s something behind the door lying in wait to eat his face or magically roundhouse kick him. Of course magic is fallible, always shifting and changing. Magic isn’t the force, with a light and dark side, it’s more like water—nourishing and destructive depending upon how it’s used. Like all elements, magic can be temperamental. Stiles keeps that in mind when putting trust into his own early warning systems. One of these days he’s going to work out that invisibility spell. Can’t roundhouse kick what you can’t see.

He squares his shoulders and heads down, his sneaking at this point is probably unnecessary. Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs and getting a good look around the space he’s far too familiar with thanks very much Stiles relaxes, the sneaking is definitely unnecessary. Everything’s been cleared out except for a few water damaged boxes shoved beneath the stairs. No other clues present themselves so Stiles drags the boxes out to middle of the floor.

The boxes mostly contain old clothes smelling of moth balls and mildew, some costume jewelry Stiles’ own grandma had been fond of thrown together in a messy ball of chains and shiny plastic, and at the bottom of the largest box is a record player—a small, squat ugly grey thing from the early 80’s. Stiles removes trash from the top to look inside, it still has a record set in place.

The second Stiles touches the needle the record starts to turn on its own. Without power The Eddie Cantor holiday classic Santa Claus is Coming to Town begins to play in a strange discombobulated way that sounds like Stiles is hearing the song under water. The lyrics stumble and skip until the cheerful proclamation of a jolly old remnant of Odin bringing gifts starts to sound more like…a threat.

Stiles bites his lip then gives a sharp nod, “Nope.” He slams the top of player shut and puts it back in the box.

The song is still playing as he half jogs up the stairs with his heart thumping up an anxiety storm in his chest. At the top he wrenches the door open expecting nothing and instead getting a glimpse of dark hair and glowing eyes before shouting and falling backwards. This is not the hail and fire he’d imagined his death to be, because of that Stiles takes a couple of seconds to realize he’s stopped falling. Two strong arms are wrapped securely around his waist. Stiles blinks at Derek Hale’s wide shocked eyes, faces only a couple inches apart. At the moment Stiles is too winded to appreciate how Derek smells like peppermint and coffee and feels so so warm…okay, no, he definitely notices all those things.

Stiles is proud of himself when instead of asking to have Derek’s puppies he yells, “What the fuck is wrong with you!?” He thumps Derek’s chest, his very firm chest.

Derek grunts yanking Stiles forward onto solid ground. Stiles resists any dog jokes that’ll get him shoved down the stairs when he catches Derek canting his head.

“Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” Derek says in most joyless tone of voice those words have ever been spoken in.

“Only if you’re on the nice little werewolf list.” Stiles retorts but goes on to clarify without prompting, “Haunted record player. We should leave. Oh, and why the hell are you even here? Are you following me?”

Derek lets him go in a huff. He’s very good at looking like Stiles is the one acting weird when Derek is the one who keeps showing up in places Derek should not be. He basically manhandles Stiles out the front door and stays on his heels until Stiles finds himself stopped next to a sleek black Camaro illegally parked close to the building.

“The Martin girl talked to Laura. About your situation.”

“Her name’s Lydia, and she is a very much a woman,” Stiles corrects frostily, “And what exactly does my ‘situation’ have to do with you?”

“Because it’s wise to tell your neighbor werewolves if danger is likely to show up on their doorstep?”

“Oh? Is that going to stop them from breaking down doors!?” Stiles isn’t sure why he’s getting so riled up, Derek’s demeanor is so…abrasive, for somebody sent here to check up on him. Nosey werewolves.

Unlocking the car Derek grouses, “It would help.”

“Fine!”

“Fine.” He opens the passenger side for Stiles crowding the younger man in.

Stiles lets it happen purely because the car is warm and absolutely no other reason, “Awesome!”

“Great.” Derek snaps slamming the door.

The sweet scent of coffee and peppermint hits Stiles anew inside the car. In the cup holders are two red holiday Starbucks cups still hot to the touch. He’s staring at them as Derek climbs in and revs his motor obscenely loud before taking off down the road.

Derek notices the staring and points to one, “Yours.”

“Mine?” Stiles can’t keep the delight out of his voice.

“Yes.”

Stiles takes a gulp even more delighted that it’s a peppermint mocha complete with copious amounts of whipped cream, “Thanks.”

One leather-clad shoulder shrugs, he’s probably uncomfortable with how easy Stiles’ mood changes when offered coffee.

“You know,” Stiles says between obnoxious slurps, “this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had.”

“You call that a conversation?” Derek smirks.

Oh my god is that a sense of humor Stiles is detecting? He gapes a bit but it quickly evolves into a fit of laughter.

“Point. You gonna tell me why you were sent to kidnap me? Because as nice as the coffee is, neighbor, I could have made it home on my own just fine. Is it really a territory thing?” Stiles sends Lydia a slew of texts while he speaks, demanding to know why she made it seem like he was a damsel right after he convinced their own puppies to stay home. It didn’t make sense.

“It is. A territory thing.” Derek says carefully, he’s simultaneously less and more tense than before, “I—We wanted to make sure nothing followed you on the way back.”

“I can defend myself. You know you could’ve been in more danger than me. There’s a pretty realistic copy of me running around right now.”

Derek’s lip curls into a slight snarl, “I would be able to tell the difference.”

“Werewolf nose?”

“…Something like that.”

“Huh.”

The rest of the ride is relatively quiet and much shorter than Stiles’ usual commute, having a car in the city is a luxury Stiles can’t afford. Stiles spends most of the trip thinking over the blank space Mrs. Shipton left in her wake. She must have known he’d be coming back. Sneakier than he gave her credit for. There’d been no magical residue left over either, all that stuff had been physically moved. She knows Stiles intends to send not-Theo back where it came from and for whatever reason she really does not want that happening. Which begs the question why call Stiles to close those gateways in the first place if she wants the Dark Young here on their world. The amount of weird piling up is pissing Stiles off. He doesn’t know enough about the Outer Gods to even start to guess. Finding someone who did is just asking for trouble too, those people are crazy. To top it all off, Lydia isn’t answering his texts. She always answers his texts.

When they’re close to home Derek gives in to asking, “Are you okay?”

Stiles has been frowning at his phone for a good ten minutes now, “Isn’t it rude to sniff out the emotions of people you don’t really know?”

“I know you.” Derek defends then cringes.

“Sounded better in your head, huh?”

Derek huffs. He rolls his Camaro into a parking complex across the street from the apartments and walks Stiles home like a dark sentinel at his back. Oddly enough, Stiles has never felt safer on the streets of New York. He keeps that to himself.

There’s no one at the front desk when they enter, there’s no one anywhere inside actually. Stiles can feel Derek tense behind him. The overhead lights are dim, holiday lights strung around the edge of the desk are out. Stiles reaches out with his magic feeling something very off. He confirms with his reliable quartz.

The crystal glows bright in his hand, Stiles looks to Derek, “Any Spidey senses tingling, big guy?”

“It feels like there’s no one here.”

“On the floor?”

“In the building.”

“Fuck.”

Derek rolls his shoulders, his face taking on a shaper quality ready for the shift, his voice turns rougher, “Magic?”

Stiles nods, unease curls poisonous in the pit of his gut. His heart starts to pound with an urgency he hasn’t felt since, well, since living in Beacon Hills. A panic attack would be easy to spiral into at any second, Stiles focuses on his breathing and a silent countdown in his head. He’ll be no use to his friends if he has a breakdown without even knowing all the facts.

Suddenly warm hands tipped with claws are gently cradling his face.

“Stiles, breathe.” Derek says.

“You know,” Stiles gasps out, “you would be a lot more soothing if the freaking fangs weren’t out!” Fangs out equaled danger zone in Stiles’ experience.

“…Sorry.”

Derek moves his thumbs in calming little circles across Stiles’ cheekbones, the motion stops the beginnings of the panic attack through sheer shock. Lydia told him once holding your breath can sometimes work, he thinks he might have been.

“Better?”

“Yeah.” In a rush of words Stiles spills, “I’m so fucking sorry I’m freaking out right now I haven’t had to worry about anyone’s life in a couple of years and I was just getting used to it.”

“It’s okay. I get it.”

“You can let go of me now.”

Derek’s eyes flash blue and for a second Stiles thinks he’s going to disagree but his hands drop curling into his fists at his sides.

“We should…” Stiles points up.

Wordlessly Derek agrees by heading to the elevators leaving Stiles to scramble behind him. Derek says he needs to find Laura, they’re both working on the assumption Derek’s Alpha and Stiles’ friends are still around. Stiles can’t do anything about the magical force field blocking Derek’s senses until he finds the source so there’s no way to know they are right until then.

Derek goes to his apartment and calls for Laura, Stiles goes to his own front door—it’s not locked. He goes for the handle only to have it open before he can. His own face smiles back at him from inside, the clothes are different and the other him stands loose-limbed and eager.

“What the fu—” Stiles starts, the other him lashes out inhumanely fast with his—its fist.

The world goes black.

  
When Stiles opens his eyes again he registers three things in quick succession: he’s tied to a chair that’s not from his apartment, his friends are all laying crumbled on the ground in a semi-circle obviously whammied indicated by the milky-ness of their half-shut eyes, and finally someone’s playing the Christmas music channel on the satellite radio through his TV.

“I’ve never been one for the Christian ways,” A kindly sounding older woman’s voice says, “But they sure do know how to write catchy tunes. Something about Christmas music feels like a warm blanket this close to the Solstice, wouldn’t you agree dear?” Mrs. Shipton ambles out into view with tea in hand, the cup she chose from his kitchen is one of Stiles’ smallest, DOPE is emblazoned on the front of the cup in pink glittery letters.

Stiles narrows his eyes at her, “Yeah, warm blankets all around.”

Mrs. Shipton tsks at him, “All this could have been avoided if you’d just been a good little sacrifice the first time I called. The more the merrier I suppose.”

“I’d apologize but oh, wait a minute, fuck you!” Stiles tests his bindings via making an indignant show of his anger, she’d used rope from Stiles’ sparingly touched tool box he keeps under the sink. The rope is cheap and worn in places.

“Children these days, no respect for their elders, and such language, I thought you were one of the good ones Mr. Stilinski.”

“I’ve never been one of the good ones.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, dear.”

“Never do.”

Mrs. Shipton smiles serenely, “Such a quick little tongue. The only thing I couldn’t get right. My version was good enough to fool your friends into letting us in past your wards. I was surprised by you having a werewolf mate, but we sent him off after you long enough to get things done. Had to make another doppelganger in the redhead’s place to do it on the fly. Stressful business.”

As she brags the copy of Stiles and a copy of Lydia walk into view. They drag the unconscious bodies of Jackson, Malia, and Lydia into a single row. Then they start to clear the room pushing all his furniture against the walls. Unnerving doesn’t even cover the sight.

Stiles blinks, “Mate?”

“He was the easiest to get rid of. All those beastly instincts running wild. I had a mate of sorts once, a husband if you remember. I’m telling you this, honey, because I want you to understand. I’m doing all of this for love. There is no greater undertaking than love. He needs me at his side, and he is at Her side.” Mrs. Shipton lays her sparkly shawl over Copycat Stiles’ arm and shoves up her sleeves like she’s about to hand-wash clothes or give Stiles the beat down of his life.

A loud banging makes resounds through the apartment. Someone is on the other side of Stiles’ front door going at it like a battering ram.

Mrs. Shipton sneers morphing the kind lines in her face into a cruel caricature, “Animals. They never learn their lesson.”

Stiles can sense the tingle of mountain ash all around, there’s no way Derek-holy-shit-his-mate-but-lets-tackle-that-later-Stiles is getting in on his own. It has to be hard for Derek, his werewolf senses being unreliable and his Alpha assumedly out of commission. At least they knew when they walked in Laura isn’t dead, Derek’s eyes were still blue.

Unconcerned about the big bad wolf at the door Mrs. Shipton carries on, she hums along with the radio as she places four black bowls around Stiles and his friends. She brings out an old wine bottle filled with coagulating blood and starts to fill them, in her other hand she holds a long thin carved bone—the artifact Lydia ordered to open a gateway of their own, while she does this her copycat helpers go out of sight and reappear again with their arms full of four foot long tree branches placing them around in a huge circle. Mrs. Shipton claps her hands together three times before raising them in the air in a stereotypical ‘calling down forces’ stance Stiles only uses when no one’s looking. The words she speaks on the other hand, Stiles has never heard any shit like that. The old woman’s voice quivers and chokes on sounds that don’t seem like they should be able to be spoken. It’s an awful language; there is one person in Stiles’ apartment who know the words as their mother tongue…mother tongues?

Not-Theo carefully hoofs his way from the bathroom to the living room easily bypassing the protective sigil. Its bulbous red eye is drawn wide. Standing up Stiles can finally get a good handle on its height, easily five feet now, the constantly undulating tentacles have migrated mostly to the top of its body leaving a trunk-like center. If you ignored the heavy cloven feet and had real shitty eyesight you could almost mistake not-Theo for a small tree.

Mrs. Shipton goes to her knees the force of hitting floor makes a clack sound, when she opens her eyes they are pure white, “Accept these offerings, oh, Great Dark Mother! Deem me worthy and ascend me to your side as gof’nn hupadgh Shub-Niggurath! I beseech thee!”

For a moment Stiles hopes the smarting bruising around his eye where he was punch messed with his head more than he thought. The living room wall with the only windows in the apartment is mmm…jiggling. Black ooze pours downs from the crease where the wall meets the ceiling until everything on the wall is covered becoming a perfectly flat shiny surface. The surface reflects the scene back at Stiles like a dark mirror except if Stiles looks beyond himself unfocused on his own world another filled with towering black trees can be seen. Doing that hurts his eyes but for a moment he doesn’t want to stop staring into the abyss and shit was Nietzsche right, the abyss is definitely staring back.

Mrs. Shipton drops her hands as well as the enraptured look on her face, she frowns at not-Theo, “Why are you not devouring them?”

Not-Theo gazes at her blankly sliding that monstrous eye to Stiles then back at her again, its many mouths open and gurgle softly, almost offended.

Stiles tips his aching head back and cackles, “Let me translate that for you: bros before hoes.”

“What—”

Stiles pushes his chair back and hopes he does this right, his Dad gave him a few anti-kidnapping tips and tricks but really it was Mr. Argent he could thank this particular skill for. The leg of the chair breaks just so—enough give for Stiles to wiggle out and get his hands free in the process, he’ll be bitching about the rope burn later. Once he can move his fingers properly Stiles calls the mountain ash into his palm and quickly shuffles away from Mrs. Shipton’s violent little copycats.

“Derek!” Stiles screams at the top of his lungs.

That’s all it takes. Stiles ducks as a shower of splintered wood rains down and a roaring fully wolfed out Derek charges in going straight for the approaching copycats. Snatching up the Lydia copy Derek easily throws it across the room at the open black gateway, the gateway sucks her in without so much as a ripple. Derek wastes no time going after the Stiles copy, he slashes its throat but no blood sprays out. The copy crumples in onto itself, the magic holding it together dissolves leaving nothing but an arm-sized log wrapped in pieces of knotted yarn. Apparently Derek can tell the difference between the real and fake Stiles pretty easily, Stiles isn’t sure how to feel about it.

Mrs. Shipton snarls, more of an animal than any werewolf Stiles has ever known, and draws back to conjure up a spell—Stiles can sense it in the air and then feels it as wind gusts through his tiny apartment. His own magic flares up in response, untethered without the support work of a spell Stiles’ magic is a volatile thing. The skin on his fingers burns hot and the air smells of thunderstorm.

“Derek, get down!” Derek doesn’t hesitate to follow Stiles’ orders.

Red sparks jump back and forth between Stiles fingers, pain shoots up his arm every time a spark changes fingers. Stiles presses his palms together, whispers the many names of his goddess, and directs his power forward, the bolt he summons is fast as natural lightning. Bright and beautiful and awe inspiring as natural lightning too, and it would have been kickass had Stiles’ bolt not missed its target. A smoking hole right next to Mrs. Shipton’s head is the only result of Stiles’ best effort. Stiles doesn’t even own a spackling knife.

“Well. Shit.” Stiles winces.

Derek pokes his head just above the disaster zone that was once Stiles’ kitchen counter.

Neither Stiles nor an appropriately stunned Mrs. Shipton gets the opportunity to make a second move because not-Theo opens its mouths and screams. And Screams. And screams. They all try to cover their ears but it does no good, the sound is more than just a sound—Stiles can tell that too. It’s a howl and spell all wrapped into one.

Just when Stiles thinks his brains might start to pour out of his ears it all stops. So suddenly a void is left on the airwaves.

Mrs. Shipton straightens up looking worse for wear, “You foolish little—”

An enormous black tentacle whips out from the gateway wrapping around Mrs. Shipton’s fragile neck making her face go instantly purple. The massive appendage jerks back dragging the old witch with it into the abyss. It all happens in seconds and without a sound.

The moment Mrs. Shipton is off this plane of existence Lydia, Jackson, and Malia all start making little noises of discomfort, their eyes clear. Lydia in particular begins to look downright murderous.

Not-Theo’s eye blinks once, roams over those laying on the floor then regards Stiles carefully. Stiles understands what its meaning to convey immediately, could be the telepathy could be he’s just got really good at reading young eldritch horrors’ body language.

“You’re going home?” Stiles manages to ask past the ringing in his ears. He doesn’t know why he feels so sad about it. Putting the little dude back where it belongs has been his mission this whole time. There is also probably a world-eating entity waiting for its child to come home on the other side of that portal to consider.

The tentacles wiggle a bit, Stiles takes that for a nod, “I’d give you a goodbye hug, dude, but I don’t think I’m mentally up for that…bro hoof?” He holds out a fist.

Not-Theo tentatively reaches over with one of his larger tentacles and taps Stiles’ fist then he shambles awkwardly top heavy into the portal never to be seen again. Hopefully.

From the ground Jackson accuses still a little out of it, “Did you…did you just teach love and friendship to a fucking evil space octopus?”

“Maybe?”

Malia groans, “Is it too late to transfer to Berkley?”

“Yes.” Lydia hisses as she hauls herself up. She picks around the debris until she finds the carved bone Mrs. Shipton dropped when Stiles tried to zap her. The bone snaps easily in Lydia’s enraged grip. The portal shatters to the floor as if it were actually made of dark smoky glass. Somehow Stiles has lost his curtains but not his framed Star Wars posters.

While the three dust themselves off Derek turns Stiles around and checks him over. It’s weird in how it’s not weird at all anymore.

“So,” Stiles starts super casually, “mates.”

Derek takes his hands off Stiles like he’s been burned which is really the opposite of what Stiles wants to be happening here. The others stop their bickering and picking pieces of whatever out of their hair to stare. Stiles could have chosen a better time but near death experience tends to bring out the impatience in him.

“I know it’s a lot. And I don’t expect…anything.” Derek’s face is in that awful blank mask again.

Stiles wants to kiss it away.

So he does.

Derek’s beard is softer than it looks against Stiles’ skin, his mouth is hot and gentle. Stiles’ toes want to curl and he makes a noise of contentment when Derek threads a hand through his hair.

“What the fuck is going on!?” Reluctantly Stiles pulls away in time to see Laura swing into the doorway, her hair is a mess and her murder face is on par with her brother’s.

“Stiles was just inviting you and your brother to Yule dinner at my place tomorrow night.” Lydia responds smoothly as if they didn’t look like they just survived a hurricane, “if you two don’t have any plans of course.”

Aside to her brother Malia says confused, “I thought they were already fucking.”

Stiles and Derek share a blush, Stiles doesn’t really mind because Derek is looking at him with his mouth slightly open in awe. Derek has bunny teeth. Fucking adorable.

“Oh.” Laura is still obviously going to be demanding a lot more answers later however at the moment she’s much more smitten with the way her brother and Stiles are sharing space, “No, we don’t have any plans. We’d love to. Huh.”

“What?” Stiles looks behind him at his windows at which Laura is faintly smiling.

“It’s snowing.”

The TV radio station begins to play an acoustic version of Silent Night, there’s no creepy static, no otherworldly interference, just music. Despite the wreck his apartment is in, and the whole attempted ritual sacrifice nonsense Stiles is calm. It is all going to be okay. Better than okay.

There are two things Stiles still needs to address before he forces everyone to find a broom and admits to Lydia she was right.

“Hey, Derek?”

“Yeah, Stiles?”

“You and I have a fuck ton to talk about.”

“Whatever you want.”

“Hey, Derek?”

Derek rolls his eyes, “Yes, Stiles?”

Stiles wraps his arms around those broad shoulders, he figures he gets to do that now, and leans in to whisper in Derek’s ear, “You owe me another door.”

  
End.

**Author's Note:**

> Things that happen after this fic: Derek takes Stiles on mad romantic Xmas time in NYC dates, not-Theo finds Stiles' phone on the other side learns to text and learns the sweet sweet jams of the Bloodhound Gang, Laura and Lydia find themselves under mistletoe at least once. Malia keeps the overalls.
> 
> Happy Holidays!


End file.
